Jo

the sun must be the sun

[𝘚𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘢☆ @Stunna999_]

Nigga got in the ring with Jon Jones and shit his pants don’t ever tell me this mf ain’t the goat bro 🐐

#UFCWhiteHouse

[B @utdbrxy]

i aint ever seen a player have to deny plans to go into power before

[Bleacher Report @BleacherReport]

Ilia Topuria's face before and after his fight vs. Justin Gaethje 😳

[Priestess of Khonshu 🌘 @gnosis_mma]

He can not even change it to 17-1 because he can not open his iPhone with face ID 😭

#ufcfreedom

[T @walterwhitepill]

IDK man I feel like every major religion and philosophy strongly warns against this kind of behavior 

[John Lynch CTE @JohnLynchCTE]

Jon jones didn’t fight for 3 years, got fat and choked out Cyril Gene in 2:04. He’s the best fighter that has and ever will live.

[Emily Proud @emily_proud]

I think I’ve watched this no fewer than 10 times… it’s so, so good. Show this in every journalism class everywhere.

[The Touchline | 𝐓 @TouchlineX]

🚨🗣️ Felix Nmecha on why he prayed with the Curacao National Team after the game:

"In the match we are rivals, but after the game we are all Christians and we are all brothers."

"We shared a short prayer because we believe that Jesus is glorified through the game."

[SIKAOFFICIAL🦍 @SIKAOFFICIAL1]

“It is only Christians who stay in bad marriages until death. If you come to me for counselling, I will tell you to leave a toxic marriage because it can kill you. My father did it to my mother.”

— Rev. Obofour, commenting on marriage and the rising rate of divorce in some highly publicised unions.

[🎥: anointedpalacechapel]

[SickydoesMMA @SICKYDOESMMA]

Just how good is Jon Jones. Literally 3 years away from the sport and taps Gane in 2 minutes up a new weight class.

Gane destroyed Pereira and was schooling Aspinall.

#UFCWhitehouse #UFCFreedom250

[Zito @_Zeets]

Wild that you can push someone and motivate them without being an asshole. So much so that he calls you after he wins a title.

[Josh Hart @joshhart]

Now we play golf! Just got to figure out where to get a golf membership in NY 👀

[Darren Rovell @darrenrovell]

Well Done, ESPN.

[Oh Chale. @Tbag__1]

every African team decided to lock in after Ghana vs Uruguay in 2010 except Ghana

[𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙖𝙖 @arkaavs]

5’11 nigga winning a championship over somebody who 7’7, this deadass David vs Goliath 😭😭

[Betsey @Betsycashmoney]

Kinda funny that "certain" people were predicting Sharia Law & mass population exodus in NYC from the Mamdani era, and instead it's like the most joyous the city has ever been 😂

[Sarah Everett @goddammitsarah]

dumbest shit imaginable happening there and it's so cool man, what a great city

[NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依 @japan_nobunaga]

USA. A backyard. A man. A grill. Four hours.

He never left it once.

Everyone else drifted, drank, wandered, laughed.
He stood before the flames, turning meat with a long fork, immovable.

I knew him at once.
The keeper of the sacred fire.

I took my place beside him.
I said nothing.

This is the first rule.
You do not speak first to the man at the grill.

After a long while, he spoke.

"Low and slow," he said, eyes never leaving the coals. "You can't rush it. Rush it, you ruin it."

I bowed my head.

A blade. A tea. A life.
None can be rushed.

I had crossed four thousand miles of ocean to hear my grandfather's words spoken by a man in a "KISS THE COOK" apron.

"Everything worth doing is slow," I said.

I have never cooked meat in my life.
But I said it as if I had said it a thousand times before.

He glanced at me.
Something passed between us. A current older than language.

His voice dropped, low, almost ashamed.

"My wife says just use the oven."

He shook his head at the fire.

"She doesn't get it."

"They never do," I said.

And this is where the man transformed.

For the first time in years, he had been understood.
He rose to meet it.

His back straightened.
His shoulders set.
His voice fell half an octave.

A teenager reached for the grill.
He lifted one hand without even looking.

"Not yet."

The boy retreated. He did not argue. He could not have argued.

A woman asked when the food would be done.
He told the flames, not her.

"It's ready when it's ready."

Three people approached.
Three were turned away with a single word each.

By the fourth hour, no one questioned him.
The whole party had arranged itself around the man and his fire, the way a village arranges itself around a shrine.

Then he turned to me.
He held out the fork.

"Watch it a sec. I gotta pee."

I have stood at the gate of lords with a naked blade in my hand.
Nothing has ever weighed as much as that fork.

I did not move my eyes from the coals.
I did not touch the meat.
I did not know how.
I would not learn.
To learn would be to break the moment.

When he returned, I handed back the fork without a word, as one returns a sword to its rightful master.

He served everyone before himself.
He ate last, standing, still watching the fire.

We never traded names. We did not need to.

He believed he had finally met a man who took grilling seriously.
I believed I had finally met America's last samurai.

Neither of us will correct the other.
Not now. Not ever.

So I have made a vow.

Every summer of my life, I will return to this country.
I will find a backyard. I will find a man at a grill.
I will stand beside him and say nothing until he speaks.
And when he says "low and slow," I will bow my head as if my grandfather had spoken.

I will die before I tell him I do not know how to cook meat.

"KISS THE COOK," his apron commanded.

I have obeyed.
I will obey again.

[Jo @pj710_]

This my favorite type of content right now 😂

[NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依 @japan_nobunaga]

In America, a warehouse store. A fully roasted chicken costs five dollars, the raw chicken beside it costs seven, and I stood between them like a man between two truths.

Golden. Hot. Seasoned. Spinning in glory under the lights, in a line of its brothers. Four dollars and ninety-nine cents.

I checked the raw birds. Seven dollars. Pale. Cold. You must do everything yourself.

This is not commerce. Commerce does not move backward. Somewhere in this building, mathematics lies defeated.

I asked the man at the counter. "How is the cooked bird cheaper than the raw bird?"

"Been five bucks forever. They keep it that way."

"But the store loses."

"Yep. On purpose."

On purpose. I held my receipt with both hands.

In my land, a lord who lowered the price of rice in a hard winter was remembered for generations. They built him a small shrine. This store does it every day, with chicken, and tells no one.

A woman behind me grew tired of my reverence. "It's just a chicken, sir."

It is not just a chicken. It is a wound the merchant takes on purpose, so that anyone, on any day, with five dollars, eats like a lord. The bird is the message. The price is the vow.

I will confess: I bought two. I did not need two. The second was not hunger. It was gratitude, and it was delicious.

Some prices are not prices. They are promises.

I return every week now. I take one bird. I bow toward the deli, briefly, so as not to alarm the staff. They have begun nodding back.

The vow holds. The bird turns. Five dollars.

Long may it spin.